5 Times John Almost Told Sherlock He Loved Him
by gatalovesyou
Summary: ...and 1 time he did! 5-plus-1, as cute as a box of puppies. Some shameless fluff for those suffering after Reichenbach, like me. John/Sherlock, some pre-slash, some slash.


Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

Author's Notes: My first 5+1. Hope you enjoy!

5.

John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson could tell you that herself. First hand knowledge, you know. You had to love Sherlock to be that patient with him. You had to love somebody, to constantly put up with the body parts in the fridge and the constant worry of experiments on the milk.

John Watson was _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft… well, Mycroft was the government, after all, and having unlimited access to CCTV and marriage records, the only surprise (though, not truly, but let's play along for the sake of exposition, shall we?) was how slow the army doctor was coming to terms with it.

But John was. Coming to terms with it.

Lestrade was a good detective. Better than people gave him credit for. He just didn't look it, not always, not with Sherlock around. (And he thought it was a trait in his favor to know when you're beat and consult an expert, so kudos on that.) The Yard knew, and they respected him, and he was, obviously, Detective Inspector. If asked, however, Lestrade would claim willful ignorance on the subject (come on, keep up—of John and Sherlock being in love). But, being 'willfully ignorant' is _not_ the same as being stupid.

Now, if you confronted him, John would still (probably) deny that he was gay. And he wouldn't be lying. His sister loved women, so he knew the whole spiel, and that there was more on the spectrum of sexuality than gay and straight. He'd never been attracted to a man before, not even as a teenager (and they're attracted to anything) and not even in the army, so this was a brand new thing for John, to look at Sherlock and lose the breath in his lungs because the man, _that man_, was so bloody beautiful.

He tried seeing women to get the thoughts out of his mind—because it would never work, would it? Not because they were both blokes (John wasn't that closed-minded, regardless of his sister) but because Sherlock was…well, Sherlock.

But John couldn't just sleep with the women he was seeing—he _did_ have restraint, and didn't want to hurt anybody—not when he had to stop himself from wondering what Sherlock would do if he kissed him, what Sherlock would say if he knew how John felt.

Speaking the three simple words would not make them any truer, because John knew what his heart and body were telling him, but John wanted to test the words on his lips.

He almost did, almost said it, already smiling, but the flat was empty.

4.

There were some things John Watson did not do, _would not do_, but tolerated in others:

He did not get so drunk he blacked out, because he needed to set an example for Harry, and he was not a hypocrite.

He did not shoot holes at the wall and startle his not-housekeeper so badly she broke a teacup.

He did not betray confidences, not even—_especially_ when bribed.

He did not giggle over dead bodies, because death was a serious thing. It was a sad, solidifying fact of life that deserved respect, decency.

Except… except that was what he was practically doing now, bent over with Sherlock, who was whispering, in great detail, right on all counts, all of the insults Anderson would mutter at them and why the CSI was such an (uninventive, unimaginative) twit.

John wanted to say it then. He wanted to tell Sherlock how he felt, but while apparently John _did_ giggle over corpses, he would not tell Sherlock that he loved him over one.

3.

The ride home from the hospital was silent, with Sherlock completely absorbed in his own thoughts. The pain medication and antibiotics they gave John for the burns on his back (trust Sherlock to run into a burning building to save evidence, and, of course, John to follow right after him) made him a little lightheaded.

'_Today,'_ John decided, feeling a little loopy. _'I'll tell Sherlock how I feel.'_

It was a relief to finally be home.

"I underestimated you," Sherlock said, sounding a subdued sort of amused, and oh, so softly, that when the door closed behind him and he put his scarf away John couldn't be sure that he had heard him at all.

But, the way Sherlock's eyes were, wide and slightly stormy, like he was both intrigued but expecting something, John was sure that the declaration had indeed come from the man.

"I thought I was an idiot," John answered. He turned to face Sherlock completely to find that their hands were both poised, slowly mimicking each other's movements. As Sherlock's slim fingers wound their way down his coat, undoing each individual button, John did the same to his own. They were in sync.

John thought about Mycroft's words so long ago, telling him that his hands shook because he missed the danger of war. But John's hands weren't shaking now.

"Only compared to me," Sherlock admitted. "But you have potential."

John could only smile. Inevitably, being around Sherlock made being called stupid lose some of its sting. Mostly. "Oh shut it," he retorted.

And that's when John kissed him.

The genius, of course he would, kissed brilliantly for someone who claimed the body was only for transport, alternating between pressing hard against John's lips, daringly invading his mouth with his tongue, and then pulling back so the kiss was feather light, a mere brush.

And John, stupid John, forgot all about promises and declarations under the onslaught of Sherlock's soft, wet, willing lips against his own.

2.

221B Baker Street had guests.

"You can't experiment on our evidence. _Live_ evidence."

"There are all sorts of perfectly safe experiments one can do on live test subjects."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. _No!_" Lestrade was there.

"I can almost guarantee no lasting side affects."

"We just put someone away for torturing animals. Don't make me do it twice in one day."

"Yes, yes, but I'm not a serial killer in the making."

"Oh, really Sherlock, you shouldn't say such things." Mrs. Hudson was there.

But those weren't the guests that John was really paying attention to. In fact, he stopped listening to their charades a while ago. He was currently on the floor, sitting cross legged, with a large cardboard box in front of his lap.

The box wiggled. Its sides shook. There were a couple thumps. A few whines. A bark.

It was a box of puppies. Three little bull pups.

John reached in and separated two bulldogs. He righted the one that was on its side and couldn't flip over. "Play nice," he knew that he all but cooed, but he couldn't help it.

John loved dogs. He'd always wanted one growing up, but his sister and mum loved cats, and his dad always gave in to his mum. John once entertained the idea of having a bull pup, but then he'd joined the army, and getting back he'd lived in hotels till he met Sherlock, so it never seemed the right time.

The pups crawled over each other trying to lick John's fingers. They were more wrinkled than old sheets, and at their size and golden brown and white colors, they looked more like guinea pigs. He pet them to hush their whining, which made their little bodies vibrate.

One of the pups literally crawled over the other two and put its little paws over the edge of the box. With its wrinkly face it looked up at John and wagged its tiny tail.

John grinned and picked him up. "Stay," he said, and placed the puppy in his lap. It flopped down with a contented sigh, and John's heart melted.

Eventually, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson noticed John's absence from the conversation. When they glanced over, all three puppies had somehow managed to find their way into John's lap.

"Their legs are as stubby as yours," Lestrade joked.

John grinned up at him. "I was wondering why I had such a soft spot for them."

"They're adorable," Mrs. Hudson agreed.

Sherlock was on the floor next to John in one smooth motion. "Bulldogs have loyal and courageous dispositions." He reached out and scratched the climber pup behind its little ears. It made soft whiney noises and nuzzled its black baby nose into Sherlock's palm. "Old accounts tell of a remarkable sense of smell. Though not compared to drag hounds, of course."

John had three puppies in his lap and was sitting on the floor like a kid. He felt so enamored and awed and was smiling so much his cheeks hurt. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock that he loved him, company be damned, but what came out instead was, "I'd like to keep one."

1.

Sherlock had bungled one of his experiments. John had to drag the man out (practically by his ears) of their flat after opening all the windows to let the place air out. The consulting detective was a bit singed, and more than a little irritated at John. "The fumes weren't _noxious_, John. We didn't have to leave." He looked like he wanted to run the other way. (Unluckily for Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson was poised at the door, ready with a broom in case Sherlock tried to climb through the windows.)

"Better safe than sorry, Sherlock," John said with a smile. "We could go get lunch," he suggested, talking over Sherlock's muttering. "A nice cafe, with seats outside?"

His mood would not be diminish today.

Yesterday afternoon, they'd closed a case, so he'd finally managed to get Sherlock to eat some dinner. Because work was done, John had gone to sleep early and woken up late, fully rested and refreshed.

Normally, he'd be writing about the man they'd apprehended (so full of his own artistic abilities, he'd switched out museum pieces with his own, convinced no one would notice) on his blog, but with the flat being off limits, he'd settled for a stroll with Sherlock.

It was a nice day. Unusually warm for London, which is another reason why Sherlock might have been irritable (not that John cared at this point, you could not wipe the smile off his face) but to John it was just perfect.

A lot of people were milling about, actually, so it was a bit before John noticed that Sherlock wasn't following. He turned around; ready to call Mrs. Hudson with a warning, but Sherlock wasn't very far behind at all.

He was off to the side, away from the street and the people scurrying along the sidewalk, foregoing cabs to walk and take in the rare warmth and sunshine. He was squatted on the floor with his elbows on his knees, cradling his chin, all long limbs and expression serious, in front of a little girl.

She couldn't have been more than five or six; with the curliest black hair he'd ever seen framing her sad round face. John made his way over and glanced between the two. "Alright?"

"She won't talk to me," Sherlock said, frowning.

"You think maybe it's because she's not supposed to?" John answered. "Talk to strangers, I mean."

Sherlock gave him a look (_'How can you call someone stupid with your _eyes_?'_ John wondered) and said, as if it were the most palpable thing, "She's been following us for the last block."

The little girl looked between the both of them and sniffed.

Sherlock began to look alarmed. John tried very hard not to smile at that. Later, maybe. "Where are your mummy and daddy?" He asked her, in a soft, kind voice—just as Sherlock snatched the teddy bear John hadn't noticed her holding.

"Ah, John—"

The little girl opened her mouth wide and began to wail.

"Sherlock, what are you doing!" John couldn't believe the nerve—why would he even do that to such a distraught little child? He reached for the bear but Sherlock propelled himself up from the ground and out of his reach.

He turned the bear around in his hands; upside down, looked in its ears and even licked it. "Wait!"

"Sherlock! _Give it back!_"

And that's when the little girl launched herself at Sherlock.

She kicked him in the shins (probably as hard as she could). She bit him and pummeled his legs with her little fists. Sherlock's face was surprised indignation, but he dropped the bear into her arms.

John was at a loss for words as the little girl clutched her toy. People were stopping, staring at them like they were teenaged hooligans picking on children. "It's—it's all right, really," he reasoned at the strangers' glares. The little girl looked ruffled and huffy (a bit like Sherlock, actually) but at least she didn't cry, or run away.

John tried not to shove Sherlock out of the way as he kneeled down, much more to her level than Sherlock had been. "My name is John, John Watson," he said. "That's my _stupid_ friend Sherlock Holmes. What's your name?"

In a tiny, accented voice: "Sofia."

"Do you know where you saw your mummy last? Do you live close by?"

"No…" Tears welled up again.

"John—"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"But I—"

"You've done enough."

"—I know where her parents are."

"…really?" The little girl's voice was tiny, a bit reproachful as she addressed Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock said. He looked ready to kneel again, but stopped at John's glare. "You were eating ice cream, weren't you? Your mum told you to stay put after you got your strawberry cone, but you didn't listen. Why would you? There was a kitty, and he liked you, so you followed him and got separated. Now you're lost."

The little girl sniffled and looked ready to cry again. If she was surprised that Sherlock knew everything that had transpired, she didn't show it. "I…didn't mean to…"

"It's okay," John promised. He thought of calling Lestrade, really that's what they should do, not teach a little girl it was okay to go off with a couple of strangers. But she looked so sad and hopeful that John didn't want to waste the time. Whatever Sherlock learned from her teddy bear was more enough to go on. "Let's go find her, okay?"

John walked alongside the both of them.

It was absolutely adorable. For all her kicking and punching before, she latched onto Sherlock's hand and clung to her bear at the same time. He had to stoop a little to hold her hand and walk at the same time, but he didn't look too uncomfortable. Especially after Sofia asked Sherlock if 'Sir Arthur' had told him what she and her mummy and daddy had been doing before she got lost. John was hoping that Sherlock would play along, but ever the pragmatist, Sherlock explained deduction to her. She seemed to find that the most amazing thing in the world (much like John) and asked Sherlock to tell her about everyone they came across, and, ever the show-off, he did.

By the time they reached the little ice cream stand a couple blocks down, and the little girl was swooped up into the arms of an ever-so-grateful mother, John was ready to tell Sherlock that he loved him.

And he almost did—really!—except the words were stifled with an ear to ear grin as Sofia (and Sir Arthur) demanded hugs from the 'magical deducing man.'

+1

The world was exploding. The earth was ripped asunder. Dirt and sand filled the air, his nose, his lungs. It clouded his eyes with grit and ash, but the flames were bright against his lids, hot against his face and lashes. Blood sprayed, people died, smaller explosions ricocheted, reverberated. He could not hear himself screaming, but his throat was raw, torn open like the ground that swallowed him.

And then John woke up, to darkness, to dampened sheets and salty cheeks. His comforter was on the floor. As his hand clutched his shirt, he tried to slow his frantic heart.

John shuddered at the vividness of the dream, gasping into the silence of his room.

But it was then he noticed the muffled tires on pavement, and slinking alley cats chasing rats and typical late night London sounds and—

The sounds of a bow, plucking expertly at the strings of a violin.

It was three in the morning.

Now, it was not strange for Sherlock to be up at odd hours of the night. There were times John went to bed and awoke to find him hunched over the same experiment, scribbling notes; or staring at the wall with the identical bleak expression, all steepled fingers and perfect cheekbones.

It was not rare for John to get out of bed, nightmares or the need to use the loo or a want of some water, and find Sherlock gone completely. His room empty, the flat still.

John had grown accustomed to all this, just like, he assumed, Mrs. Hudson had. But when Sherlock took to playing his violin at this time of night, it was because he was in a _mood_, one that didn't care for the tolerances of his flat mate, and the music that came from his bow spasmimg on the strings was brittle, hard, and noisy. It screeched.

This was not noise.

This was Mendelssohn, this was music, and it came from right outside his door.

It was beautiful in the smooth way it flowed into his room and brushed his arms like a caress. It calmed the breath in his longs and soothed the pounding of his heart; it emptied the rush of blood from his ears, his veins, and the tremors in his body _finally_ stilled.

It cleared the dream from his thoughts, leaving John slowly blinking as it sang a soft fog from the corners of his mind, comforting, cocooning.

And slowly, John drifted with the song, sinking, smiling.

"I love you," he whispered, reaching, sleeping.

The violin played its answer into the night.


End file.
